Code Triage (30 page)

She was onto his plan way too soon.

“You’re kidding, right? Lombard Street? What do you think I am, a tourist?”

“I think you’d better hang on tight.”

He steered the Z4 downward into the first of eight hairpin turns on the one-way section on Russian Hill, between Hyde and Leavenworth, known as “the crookedest street in the world.” A steep redbrick-paved road on a 27 percent grade with a posted speed limit of five miles per hour. “No sweat,” he said. “We took these turns during training. I could do this at a raging six miles an hour . . . chewing gum.” Her grin made his chest warm.

“And wipe out an entire bank of hydrangeas,” she said, pointing across the lush hedges and leaning back—way back—in her seat. “Don’t be a maniac, Nick.”

He nosed the car into the next switchback and hit the button on his CD player, filling the car with blues, then thought of Antoinette and Harry dancing to Tony Bennett. And remembered holding Leigh only minutes ago. Maybe he’d drive slower; 5 mph was too fast for a last ride.

He left Lombard and drove southeast toward Mission, then onto the Embarcadero, weaving in and out of traffic under the jumble of electric bus wires, passing a double-decker sightseeing bus and a group of helmeted tourists navigating the crowded sidewalk on Segways. Then drove downhill toward Beach Street, Fisherman’s Wharf, and the view of the bay beyond the marina that always made his breath catch.

He skirted Golden Gate Park on the loop back, breathing in the familiar scent from the huge, peeling, and silvery green stands of eucalyptus that lined it—sweet, clean, sharp . . . a hint of camphor. The same scent, in subtle traces, was in Leigh’s favorite herbal shampoo, and he’d teased her more than once that she smelled like his favorite city.
Like home . . .
He sneaked a glimpse of her, noticing that she’d closed her eyes and relaxed against the headrest. Almost as if she were sleeping. He tried not to think that he’d never see her that way again.

When he finally pulled the car to the curb, miraculously finding a space, Leigh opened her eyes. Her brows drew together and he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

“It’s Niko’s,” she said, turning to look at him.

“Reynaldo’s.” He pointed to the sign. “See? Macaroons, conchas, quesadilla cake.”

“Quesadilla cake?”

“And Mexican hot chocolate.” He waited, holding his breath.

“Okay—you got me with the hot chocolate.”

+++

Sam left a third message, knowing that he’d turned his phone off. When she called Buzz’s apartment, the chaplain had said only that he had no idea when to expect Nick back. He’d offered nothing more, though he’d politely inquired about how she was feeling. Sam frowned. What she was feeling was frustrated. She’d dozed off not long after checking on Elisa—she was playing hide-and-seek with her cousins and giggling her head off. The nurses hadn’t awakened Sam for Nick’s call. She’d been hoping to at least talk with him, find out what time he was coming in the morning. He was on administrative leave, so no excuses about time. She’d suggest that he pick up Elisa at Tina’s, take her for the day—the zoo again or the Discovery Museum. Then come back here, so they could all be together.
Nick, me, and Elisa.
Just the way she’d told Leigh.

Except she couldn’t make any of that happen until she talked with Nick.

Sam picked up the phone and punched in his cell number again. She listened to the message, feeling the blood pressure cuff inflate on her arm, then spoke—keeping her tone soft, fragile, bruised.

“Nick, I talked with Elisa just now. She’s frightened, crying—it’s breaking my heart. I tried to tell her I was okay, that Mommy wouldn’t die . . . like her uncle Toby did. She asked for you.”

That should do it.

+++

Leigh pointed to Nick’s face, brushing at her own. “You have a little flake of churro, right . . . You got it.” She watched him over the rim of her cup—rich Mexican chocolate with cream, eggs, vanilla, and a dash of cinnamon. She almost never indulged in something so decadent, but today . . . “This is perfect,” she said, noticing that Nick still had a faint sprinkling of sugar in the dark beard growth on his chin. “The chocolate, I mean,” she added quickly.

“I knew what you meant.” He glanced around the pastry shop, and she could tell by his expression that he was remembering the few years this space had been his. The lemon soup he made, the street folks he’d fed after hours, his friends clowning. Toby.

“You stood right there,” he said, pointing to where a Mexican flag was draped along the wall by the cash register, “that first time you walked in here. You were wearing your riding boots that day too, with a scrub top over your breeches. Sort of Dr. Cowgirl.” He turned back to look at her. “You planted yourself right there and complained that nothing on my menu was takeout.”

“I had a two-hour reprieve from the ER. I wanted to ride, but I was starving.” She exhaled, remembering the moment she’d first seen him. Even in sturdy boots, her knees had gone weak.

“I came out from the kitchen and tried to explain that good food takes time to prepare, and eating it—enjoying it—should take at least as long.”

“You said, ‘Fast is for racehorses.’”

“And you—” she saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes—“you said you’d come for food, not a commitment.”

I said that?

The stretch of silence between them was filled by strains of mariachi music from a radio behind the counter. Leigh noticed for the first time that the other patrons had gone and the staff was wiping down the tables. The faint odor of bleach mingled with the scents of chocolate and fried pastries.

“I think they’re getting ready to close,” she said, still thinking of the moment she’d met him. She in riding clothes, he with a dish towel draped over his shoulder; their discussion about the takeout, her tour of the kitchen, and her first taste of his lemon soup. There had been scents of mint, garlic, and roasting lamb, and it had begun to rain.
I stayed, Nick. I stayed that day.
“I suppose we should go.”

“Right,” he said. “I’ll drop you back at the hospital, and then I’ll . . .” That foreign, hopeless look she’d seen in the parking lot earlier came back into his eyes.

“And you’ll do what?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll drive around. I’m not sure yet. But I’m just not ready to face Buzz’s couch. I’ll drive for a while and think.” He caught the look on her face and gave a short laugh. “Don’t worry; I won’t sleep in my car outside your house.”

“Our house,” she heard herself say. “It’s still ours—together. Regardless.”

“Okay. I won’t sleep in the car outside our house. Regardless.”

Their eyes met and they were silent again.

They drove back to the hospital, saying very little. Nick pulled up to her car and got out, leaving the engine running while she unlocked it. She stood for a moment with her back to him, thinking. Trying not to think. Feeling, despite every red flag, that—

“Don’t drive around,” she said, turning to him. “I don’t want you to wander around with no place to go. Not after what happened in the ICU tonight with Kristi, and . . .”

“What are you saying?”

“That you should come to our house. I’ll make coffee.” She smiled. “Wait—you can do it. It’s your coffeemaker.”

He was quiet for a few seconds, then exhaled. “Deal.”

She sat in her car, pretending to warm the engine, and waited for her hands to stop shaking. Then drove out of the parking lot with Nick following. She hoped he wouldn’t mention that he’d taken the lemon tree—rescued it from her. The past two days had been tough enough and she didn’t need another reminder of her failures.

+++

Nick opened the door for Leigh and made a point of not looking at the empty spot where their potted lemon tree had always stood. He didn’t want to think about how she’d tossed it out—too much of a reminder that he was on the same course, even with this unexpected reprieve. He wasn’t sure why tonight was happening, but he’d take it.

They stood in the foyer in awkward silence, Leigh wiping her boots a few more times than necessary on the throw rug, Nick making a production of putting his keys back in his pocket and then inspecting the weather stripping around the doorframe. A homeowner concerned about his investment, nothing deeper than that.

“Well,” she said after clearing her throat, “you know where the coffee is.” She flexed the toe of her riding boot and grimaced. “I need to get out of these boots and breeches, maybe pull on a sweater; it’s kind of chilly. It won’t take but a few minutes.” She pointed to the staircase. “I’ll just be right up—”

“I know where,” he said, wondering for a strange moment whether or not the “our house” she’d insisted upon earlier extended as far as “our bedroom,” “our shower.” He thought not, then felt a quick stab of guilt as he recalled Sam’s invitation a few nights before:
“There’s a shower here.”
Going there that night had been a mistake. And a reminder—like picking at a scab—of the far bigger one he’d made almost a year ago.

“Okay,” she said, hand on the banister. “Make yourself at—” She grimaced and hurried up the stairs without looking back, her riding boots thumping against the sisal carpeting.

Make yourself at home.
He groaned at the irony of her swallowed words as he walked toward the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the dining room as he passed. The McNealys’ table still sat there, under a chandelier no longer choked short. The elegant vintage fixture hung freely as it was meant to, ready to cast sparkling prisms of light over a family gathered below. After all his attempts to put a table in that room, it was finally there—days before his wife divorced him. He shook his head, thinking of how they’d carried the old table across the driveways, he and Leigh and Caroline. Everything had seemed hopeful—so like an answer to his prayers—until Sam had placed that phone call to Leigh. The first in an ugly roll of events that ended in his raising a weapon to take a man’s life.

He crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and reached for the door handle, his gaze moving over the haphazard grouping of papers held by magnets. He glanced quickly toward the stairway, feeling oddly like a Peeping Tom in his own home. Their photos, of course, had long since been taken down. And now there was only a list of community college classes, the business card for Frisco’s vet, a scribbled telephone number for a Holland America cruise ship—Leigh’s mother, most likely. And an invitation to an engagement party.
Erin Quinn, Scott McKenna.
He’d met the red-haired charge nurse at Pacific Mercy very briefly, the day he’d driven there to tell Leigh about Caroline’s DUI arrest . . . and to ask her to come home. He’d told Leigh that her sister needed her; that was the truth. And that he’d move out of the house so she could stay with Caroline until she got back on even ground and could live by herself; he’d done that. What he hadn’t said was that he’d hoped—prayed—that having Leigh back in San Francisco would give them one last chance to save their marriage. That, he hadn’t accomplished.

Nick pulled the refrigerator door open, found the coffee, and got it brewing, the gurgle and hiss of the Moccamaster mingling with the distant sound of the upstairs shower. He grabbed cups and tried to ignore the heaviness weighing in on him, the sense of finality and ending as real as Kurt Denton’s body lying in that ICU. His gaze fell on a brochure lying on the counter beside the refrigerator.
Doctors Without Borders?
He picked up the tri-folded paper, its cover showing a heavily robed woman holding an infant, above a list of sites urgently needing physicians: Somalia, Pakistan, Sri Lanka. And a featured book, written by a participating doctor:
Six Months in Sudan
. His throat closed. He knew Leigh had been pursuing job opportunities outside San Francisco, but he’d never dreamed she would go that far.

He gritted his teeth. This could
not
happen. He wouldn’t let her go to Somalia or Sudan. Go . . . anywhere. This time he wasn’t sitting outside in a car. Tonight he’d been invited in. He had an advantage; he had a shot—Nick winced, then took a slow breath. In truth, it wasn’t all that different. Though he wished it hadn’t happened, he’d done what he had to do yesterday in that hospital parking lot. And now, tonight, he was prepared to aim just as carefully to save his marriage.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“You made a fire,” Leigh said, surprised. She stepped into the living room, breathing in the scents of coffee and earthy-rich burning oak. Nick sat on the couch, holding a coffee mug.

“You said you were cold.” His brows scrunched together. “You’re limping.”

Leigh shrugged. “New boots. The left one must have been laced too tightly—my foot’s aching. I should have changed my clothes before I went to the hospital.”
Except I was so angry about Sam.
She hugged her soft shawl cardigan close, noticing how the firelight, orange as the Golden Gate Bridge, played off Nick’s features and cast a warm glow around the room. He’d shed his jacket and laid his holster on the tall mantel, the same way he’d done a thousand times before. Except tonight was so very different. “Coffee smells good.”